


sin and bone

by Signe (oxoniensis)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: First Time, Frottage, Incest, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-12
Updated: 2011-01-12
Packaged: 2017-10-14 16:47:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/151373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oxoniensis/pseuds/Signe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His bones don't fit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	sin and bone

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Грех и плоть](https://archiveofourown.org/works/922989) by [Rassda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rassda/pseuds/Rassda)



> For lazy-daze, who asked for 'porny weecest with frottage' (Sam is 15) in the [Fall Fandom Free-For-All](http://oxoniensis.livejournal.com/367156.html). Beta thanks to pheebs1 and vinylroad. Originally posted September 2008, [here](http://oxoniensis.livejournal.com/367704.html).

His bones don't fit.

He feels them, stretching his skin, growing inside him too fast. He's a freak.

He wonders, some days, if he's even human. If maybe he's really a shape-shifter or a changeling and only just learning it. If he's walking around in a skin that isn't his, a borrowed body he needs to give back.

Dean was never like this, awkward and fumbling and furious. Sam doesn't need to ask, he remembers. He watched. Saw Dean grow, sure and steady and even, bones and muscle and skin all together. He never woke Sam up screaming in the middle of the night, or lay on the floor and ached. Sam's sure that's how it's meant to be, growing up. Just like that, like Dean. Like everyone else in this little town.

*

Sam has dreams.

He only remembers them for seconds after waking, sharp rushes of color and sound and emotion that for a moment seem real. By the time he's awake enough to know they're not, he's forgotten them, left grasping after solitary images like flashcards, meaningless on their own. A field of crops ready for harvest, a broken doll hanging from a brown haired child's hand, a swing creaking in the evening breeze, bullets shattering the white plaster of a wall, Dean underneath him with begging eyes. Sam doesn't remember what Dean was begging for, Sam to stop or Sam to—do something. Something wrong that's crept into Sam's brain like a plague and settled there. He doesn't put words to this thing, not yet, not sure he knows how to. It's always been the two of them, him and Dean—his dad loves him, he knows, but Dean's there, and that makes the difference—and the idea of turning that upside down makes his stomach clench so bad he thinks he's going to throw up.

Other times he dreams and wakes up sticky.

He spends too much time not thinking about it.

"Wake up, moron." Dean slaps him round the head.

"Wasn't sleeping," Sam snaps, and it's true, he wasn't, just sitting, eyes closed and not-thinking. He's grateful for the distraction of Dean pulling him to his feet for some target practice, not that he'll admit it. He grumbles, under his breath, and Dean ignores him, just throws his boots at him hard enough to bruise Sam's shin where one hits.

"Put them on," he says.

"Fucker," Sam mutters, and Dean grins, sharp and mean.

*

Practice goes badly. Sam's lost his balance, lost the place inside himself that let him focus. He tries the whole hour, scrunches his face up in concentration and searches for it, tries to filter out the noise and distration, but he can't shut out the world, can't ignore Dean's ragged breathing beside him, can't make his mind forget everything but his weapon and the target.

His first shots are wild, and Dean whoops with laughter. He stops laughing when Sam's next four shots miss the target completely. When Sam hits Dean's target instead of his own, Dean spins around, furious.

"You have to be fucking kidding, right? Stop screwing around, it isn't funny."

Sam doesn't answer, can't, because his eyes are leaking and that's just making it worse, eyes not focusing and arms not obeying him.

*

Dean tries, later, in the dark. Across the room, he questions Sam. "What was up with you earlier? You coming down with something? Because you gotta say if you are, don't want to catch your germs."

"I'm fine," Sam says, and turns over, his back to Dean. Universal language for _I don't want to talk_.

Dean ignores it.

"Yeah, real fine, I can tell." He pauses, and Sam can hear him thinking what to say next. The silence is so awkward that Sam feels like willing himself to disappear. He lies still, waiting for Dean to say something. He squeezes his hands shut, tight, hard enough that he can feel his nails digging into the skin of his palms. He squeezes tighter, trying to draw blood, trying to relieve the stress building up in his bones, but it doesn't work, his nails too blunt to do any damage.

Dean still hasn't said anything; Sam's almost relieved at the silence. He can pretend Dean will let it drop, fall asleep. That they'll wake up in the morning and all will be forgotten, the normal daily shuffle starting over again. He begins to relax, hands falling loose under the covers, legs eased out until his feet reach the end of the mattress.

He should have known better, shouldn't have let himself doze off until he heard the telltale signs of Dean sleeping first, steady breathing and the slow movements of sleep. So he isn't prepared at all when Dean climbs into the bed behind him. He turns around without thought, pressing up against Dean as though he can find what he's lacking in the solidity of Dean.

"Whoa," Dean says, like he's warding off an overly friendly dog, uncomfortable and unsure of Sam's intentions, and Sam pulls back, scoots back until he almost falls off the bed. Dean grabs him in time and pulls, tugging him back toward the center of the bed, and Sam doesn't know whether to move or stay or just fucking punch Dean in the gut for being there and being his brother and looking after him and not preventing this, not fixing Sam.

Instead he ruts up against Dean. "Want to see how fine I am?" he hisses, like a challenge, like he's spoiling for a fight. Rubs up against Dean again, lets him feel Sam's dick getting hard, and his stupid body is shaking like he's cold, bones rattling inside so hard he thinks Dean must hear, must be learning all the ways Sam's wrong. Maybe he'll tell Sam, tell him he's not meant to be like this, he's fucked up, a freak.

"Sam," Dean says, and it's not right the way he's saying it, all kindly and caring and something else underneath, something that sounds like the way Sam feels, aching and wrong.

Sam shoves his face in the crook of Dean's neck, hides there to blind himself. He orders his hips to settle and his fists to unclench, but nothing is obeying him, arms curling around Dean and cock rutting up against his hip.

"It's—it's okay, Sammy," Dean says, and he's never been a good liar, isn't now, not if he can't say it without stammering like he's ten years younger and he's promising Sam everything will be alright, Dad will be home, they'll have a Christmas.

 _No_ , Sam's saying, but it's just the word floating around in his head.

"It is," Dean says, like he can read Sam's mind. Sam feels the gulp of Dean swallowing against his face still wedged into Dean's neck, and then Dean shifts against him, shifts so that they line up, hips slotting aginst one another. Sam doesn't know if it's better or worse that Dean's hard too.

Better, he decides, when Dean starts to move against him. He feels it in his belly first, a sparking inside him that chases itself around his body, like he's being filled up from the inside out. And it should be bad, bursting against this skin of his that's too tight already, but it just makes him feel more real. More solid. Like Dean, someone whole.

Sam's still moving too, Dean caught on to his rhythm, and the whole bed is creaking and the rain is pelting down outside, sharp rattle against the window, but all Sam can absorb is the sound Dean's making, heedless groans that run through Sam and find every little murky space inside him and push out the dark.

He digs his fingers into Dean's hip tight, as though he can sink into Dean. He lifts his head, face to face with Dean, and they're sharing breath, hot dirty exhaled air back and forth. Sam can feel everything, the stutter of Dean's breath and every place they touch. Dean's touch is too delicate, light against him through layers of fabric when he wants Dean to feel like this, like Sam does—desperate, like nothing is enough, not tight enough or close enough or hard enough until they've sunk into each other.

"More," he begs, "Dean, I need—I want—fuck," and Dean's shhing him, sound disappearing down Sam's throat as soon as it's out of Dean's mouth, but it's okay because Dean's understood, is pushing his shorts down and then Sam's sweats and they're skin against skin now, and it's so much more that Sam can hardly bear it, his dick leaking over Dean's.

"Want you to come all over me," Dean grunts, voice low and cracked. "Want you to come on my dick, want to feel it trickling down over my balls."

"Fuck," Sam whispers, and he thinks he hears an echo from Dean, but he's losing it, losing every sense other than the feel of his dick against Dean's, the heat and heft of it. Nothing between them. Skin to skin.

When he comes it's almost a shock, building up so long he's almost forgotten there's an end point, his dick pulsing urgently, over and over until it hurts to move any more, and he can feel his come sliding down Dean's dick, coating their bellies.

He gasps. Exhausted. Wasted, and he closes his eyes and remembers to breath, heavy in and out, an effort. Feels his dick, soft between his legs, sticky and it should be gross but it isn't. He wants Dean's come on it too, wants to mingle that the way they've intermingled breath.

He tries to lift his hand toward Dean, but it's heavy, and Dean's there before him, hand on his own dick, rough and fast and Sam wishes he could see as well as feel, wants to do this again in the daylight.

He swallows the thought.

He listens to the sloppy sound of Dean jacking himself, and it's different from every other time he's heard it, not muffled or distant or secretive. Dean's not trying to be quiet, he's moaning his pleasure and spreading his legs and so fucking into it that Sam thinks it's the hottest thing he's ever heard.

Dean comes with a shout and Sam would laugh if the shout weren't for him, every sound Dean's letting out all for him. Splatters of come, and it's on his dick and on his belly where his t-shirt's rucked up, and when Dean finishes he sinks back against Sam, their come mixed together so they can't tell where one ends and the other starts.

Neither move.

Sam notices the rain again now, and the chill in the room that's come with the rain storm, and the chugging sound of the old refrigerator in the next room. He thinks he'd hear if a spider started spinning a web in the corner.

He wonders if he should lean over and kiss Dean. He wants to. He wants to know what Dean tastes like, catch it under his tongue. Turns his head ready. But. He's not sure if that would cross another line, so he leaves the movement half-formed, wriggles around like he's just trying to get comfortable.

"Gotta go," Dean says quietly, and Sam's grateful that he spoke first, that he didn't force Sam to break the awkward silence. He wants Dean to stay though.

"Dean," Sam starts, though he doesn't have a plan in his head for what he's going to say next. He'll just let the words happen, let Dean make sense of whatever spills out.

"Go to sleep," Dean interrupts, pulling on his sweats and climbing in his own bed, and when he turns his back, Sam shuts his mouth and pulls the covers up.

Under the sheet he's still naked and messy, his come and Dean's drying on his skin.

He stretches out, feeling his muscles flex, feeling his skin stretch with them. It's a better fit than usual, but when he looks at Dean, hunched up shoulders, he thinks maybe Dean's skin doesn't fit so well anymore.

*

When he dreams, he dreams of Dean splitting wide, mouth open and silent through the pain of it. Sam watches, but either he can't move or he simply doesn't. He just watches.

He doesn't remember the dream in the morning.


End file.
